


let your bones show

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (a bit), Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Marking, Mild Painplay, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way Athos can be sure he isn't dreaming is the painful jab of his sword hilt into his hip. And even then, it could just be a very vivid detail from his wine-soaked mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let your bones show

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Athos' scarf and was all, "I wonder why he wears that." My brain unhelpfully suggested, "Hickeys?" Nearly five thousand words of almost pure smut later...
> 
> title from "Animal Love I" by Charlene Kaye. (http://youtu.be/8SXic7a_ZVI )

The only way Athos can be sure he isn't dreaming is the painful jab of his sword hilt into his hip. And even then, it could just be a very vivid detail from his wine-soaked mind. He's sure he's conjured stranger times and places than the landing at the top of the stairs to his lodgings, the only light the moonlight coming through the narrow, smoke-stained window, with him pinned between Porthos and Aramis as Aramis kisses his way down Athos' neck.

He barely remembers how they got here. He remembers they came from the tavern, all of them drinking a little more than they probably should have; he remembers the day they'd had, tracking down a group of thieves who'd robbed a visiting comtesse; he remembers the fight in the narrow streets that got _very_ tight for a few minutes--the skin on his temple is still hot and tender, his ear still ringing slightly from the gun that went off right next to his head as he grappled with one of the ruffians--and he remembers Porthos and Aramis not letting him out of their sight afterward, the pair of them staying much closer to him than usual, forever stopping themselves from reaching out to touch him, as if checking he's still there, still in one piece.

But he doesn't remember, except in flashes and starts, the two of them walking him up to his room from the tavern, and he doesn't remember what he said, exactly, to them, that made their faces go tight and strained and their eyes hot with something he had never seen before. 

He _does_ remember the way they moved in perfect concert, then, turning him, Porthos wrapping warm arms around him, and Aramis bending to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, but only because he is never going to forget that, ever, as long as he lives.

And now here he is, shaking against Porthos as Aramis presses open-mouthed, biting kisses down his neck--somehow his shirt is open and Aramis' mouth is hot on the tender skin just above his collarbone, and Athos makes a sound he's never heard from himself before. One of his hands lands heavily in Aramis' hair and twists the fine strands through his fingers, holding Aramis there, and he makes another breathless, tortured sound, trying to arch against both of them at once. 

"He's good at that, isn't he?" Porthos says in Athos' ear, too knowing and too warm. Athos nods helplessly, his muscles shivering under his skin with the realization that Aramis and Porthos do this together, know each other this way, and now Athos knows, too--

"Athos," Porthos whispers, tightening the arms he has around Athos' chest, and his breath grazes the stinging place at Athos' temple. Athos shudders again, words locking in his throat, and his other hand reaches up and back to hold onto Porthos, to ground himself. Porthos kisses the skin behind his ear, his beard rubbing against the back of Athos' neck. "We thought we'd lost you for a minute today," Porthos says, and Athos would be a fool to miss the way Aramis' fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, the sharp, sudden sting of Aramis' teeth on his collarbone. He gasps, his whole body alight with heat and desire, the wine he'd drunk overlaying everything with a dizzy, spinning shine.

"But I've never seen you more alive," Porthos breathes, and it's too much, too much for Athos to bear. They're both hot and alive against him, and Athos wonders if life is contagious, if it's their life that's bringing all the empty, hollow places in him back from the dead, because God knows he couldn't do it himself.

Aramis lifts his head at Porthos' words, his lips kiss-swollen and rough from where he's been covering Athos in marks (to feel the rush of blood under his skin, Athos wonders), and seals his mouth against Athos' again. "Athos, Athos," he says, his voice as raw as Athos feels.

He hasn't let himself feel pleasure in so long that when the white-out rush comes, it catches him completely by surprise.

\- -

The next morning, Athos stumbles out of bed, alone, in his usual manner. Nothing is different. (He tries very hard to tell himself nothing is different. They'd poured him into bed as usual, smiling and gentle, and left when he promised he'd be all right. All the same as usual.) As he moves past the window, his reflection catches in the corner of his eye.

He stops. No. Surely not.

But he has to be _sure,_ so he stumbles closer and squints. The light makes it difficult, but he can still see enough of light and dark to tell that, yes, there is something on his neck.

Right at the base of his neck, just above his collarbone, there's a deep red smudge. He reaches up and rubs at it, then winces at the sting. It's not a stain, it's a bruise.

A bruise from--

Athos' whole body flushes hot with a confused mixture of memory, embarrassment, and desire. It all comes back so _vividly_ when he sees the mark. Porthos at his back, steady, strong arms around him, grounding him, and Aramis at his front, holding him close, mouth open and hot on Athos' neck--

He shivers, curses himself for shivering, and scrambles for his clothes. He can't, can't, _can't_ show up at the garrison with this on his neck for everyone to see. Too many questions, too many eyes on him, too much attention he just doesn't need.

He lights on a thin scarf and loops it around and around his neck until the mark (Aramis' mark, his mind reminds himself unhelpfully, Aramis and Porthos' mark, visible for all to see) is hidden. He stares at his reflection, trying to see if anything _else_ is different--are his eyes different? He thinks so--he doesn't know how anyone could look at him and _not_ see what they did last night, written all over his face. But he thought that before, and he'd been wrong, so perhaps it was all in his head.

When he leaves his room, though, he knows he was wrong. Every eye that passes over him _has_ to see it--or see the scarf around his neck, and know what that means. He feels every person's gaze on him like pins and needles over his skin. The mark is burning on his neck under the scarf. 

He's hot all over by the time he gets to the garrison. He's not sure if he's sweating, but he feels like it. All his muscles are tense, his shoulders not settling right, and _they're all staring at him._ Aren't they?

"Good morning," he hears from across the courtyard, and almost automatically he changes direction in midstride, his body homing in on Porthos like a reflex. He's halfway there before he remembers _Porthos knows,_ Porthos of all people will know because he was _responsible_ and he'll _see,_ and what if he can't keep all this inside himself and then _everyone_ will know _exactly_ what happened?

All this panic flashes through his mind in the half-second it takes him to look up and see Porthos leaning against the stairs.

Porthos looks the same as always, his arms crossed over his chest, completely at his ease. Only this time Athos can look at those arms and remember how they felt holding him still for Aramis to kiss, remember writhing against that broad, steady chest as their heat and their presence took him apart--

Athos knows he's flushed red, bright red under his hat, and he prays to God that Porthos isn't going to notice the scarf, won't notice the flush, just won't _ask._ He doesn't know what he wants more--for Porthos to pretend it never happened, or for Porthos to acknowledge it somehow, if just to prove that it isn't all in his head.

"Aramis is up with Treville," Porthos supplies when Athos finally reaches him. "Getting our assignment for the day."

Athos nods, not trusting himself to speak, because just Aramis' _name_ conjures up phantom lips and hands and teeth on his neck. He looks away, anywhere but at Porthos, because he _can't,_ he needs to be in control here, now, needs to be in his element. Everything else may have changed, but being a Musketeer _can't._

"All right?" Porthos asks, his voice low, and he sounds so worried that Athos looks back up at him, startled. 

Porthos is watching him with a careful, guarded kind of tenderness--the same way, Athos realizes, that Porthos always looks at Aramis, mindful not to show too much emotion but unable to hide it all. And now Athos is included in that warm, cautious secret. Porthos' dark eyes are full, fragile with worry and a tentative kind of hope, and Athos goes warm all over in a very different kind of way. 

"Yes," he says, looking Porthos square in the eye. He's terrified, of everything this means, of everything he's feeling, and his heart is thudding against his ribs so loudly he's sure Porthos can hear it, but he's sure, all the same.

Porthos lets his breath out explosively, tension dropping off his frame, and he grins at Athos. It's bright, infectious, pure Porthos, and Athos smiles back. "Good, you had me worried there," Porthos jokes, moving into Athos' space as easily as breathing, and he claps Athos on the shoulder--the same as always, but his hand heavier, just a fraction tighter. 

His thumb grazes the edge of the bruise under the scarf, and Athos' breath freezes in his chest. _Want_ lances through him like musket shot. 

Athos can pinpoint the exact moment Porthos realizes why the scarf is there.

Slowly, deliberately, Porthos traces his thumb over the thin fabric again. Athos swallows. He glances up and sideways, catching Porthos' eye, and Porthos' smile has turned soft and predatory, his gaze heating up with every pass of his thumb over the spot on Athos' neck they both know is there.

Athos is a hairsbreadth from doing something precipitous and incredibly stupid when the sound of a door slamming above jolts them both out of the moment.

They look up, and there's Aramis swaggering out of Treville's door. He's putting on his hat, looking at the paper orders in his hand, and he starts talking without glancing up to see they're both there. "I suppose we have to go drag Athos out of bed," he says, frowning at whatever's written there as he comes down the stairs. He looks tense and worried, and Athos wonder if it's the orders or Athos himself Aramis is worrying about. "I knew we should have stayed. If he disappeared down the neck of a bottle after we left last night, I'll never forgive mys--"

"Aramis," Athos says.

Aramis nearly misses the last step, his head coming up and his face startled and open. "Athos!" He has that same frightened-hopeful look Porthos had on his face, for the split second before he sees Porthos' hand on Athos' shoulder. 

They're all very minute gestures, but Athos still sees very clearly the wide-eyed _really?_ look Aramis flicks at Porthos. Porthos smiles and nods, the motion no greater than it has to be, and Aramis' whole body goes boneless with relief. He leans on the hand he still has on the banister, looking much, much younger suddenly. He smiles, shaking his head. "Sorry I doubted you," he says, looking up, and the full power of that sunlit smile hits Athos right under his ribs.

Athos smiles back, relaxing into Porthos' hold. Porthos chuckles softly. "The pair of you, I swear." Almost absently, he runs his thumb across Athos' neck again. 

Aramis' eyes zero in on the motion. Athos sees his gaze trace the length of that scarf, and two spots of color bloom in Aramis' cheeks. Athos is staring shamelessly at Aramis' mouth, which is the only reason he sees Aramis bite his lip--just barely, and just for a moment, his teeth grazing the soft, chapped flesh of his bottom lip like he can't help himself.

Athos goes dizzy from want as all the blood in his body rushes abruptly south. Aramis takes a step forward like a stalking cat, his gaze raking over Athos with heavy-lidded eyes.

Porthos clears his throat meaningfully. "Orders?"

Orders. Yes. Because they're in the middle of the courtyard, their Musketeer brothers are everywhere, and if they throw themselves on each other, _someone_ is surely going to notice.

Aramis blinks like Porthos hit him over the head. "Right. Orders." He looks down at the paper crumpled in his hand, then shakes himself. "We're riding out to the countryside. Escorting a group of landowners into the city to meet with the king."

Athos only picks up on one word in that sentence. "Riding?" he says, his voice pitched slightly lower than he'd intended it to be. The stables are out of the open. Secluded. They could have a minute.

Aramis looks sharply up at him. His eyes dart between Athos and Porthos, and color floods his cheeks again. "Right," Aramis says crisply, turns on his heel, and leads the way toward the stables.

They move with precision, and Athos has never before been quite so grateful that they're all trained soldiers, efficient and purposeful. They walk into the stables, and Aramis flips a coin (that flashes suspiciously like gold) the the boy who takes care of the horses. "Have you had your breakfast yet, Thierry?" Thierry is gone like a shot, and Aramis closes the door behind him and finds the heavy wooden plank to bar it. 

Athos barely waits for the door to close before throwing his hat aside and launching himself at Porthos, who catches him, twists a hand in his hair, and kisses him breathless.

"I bet you were feeling it all morning, weren't you?" Porthos hisses against his lips, and his other hand comes up to yank the scarf off Athos' neck. "Wondering if anyone could see it, what they were going to think?"

"Yes," Athos gasps, because there's no point in denying it. Porthos' fingers trace over his neck, his thumb covering the mark, and he can feel Porthos' pulse beat against the tender skin. Without warning, Porthos' thumb digs into the bruise, and Athos bucks against him, clutching onto the front of Porthos' jacket with both hands.

"Our mark," he hears Aramis say, and turns to see Aramis leaning against the door. Aramis smiles, bright and hot, then pushes himself off the door, crossing the floor in three strides and taking his own kiss from Athos.

Athos shudders against Porthos as Aramis licks into his mouth. He's been unable to think of anything but Aramis' lips and teeth and tongue all morning, and having it all again, all at once, is almost too much. When Aramis breaks away, his chest heaving, Athos arches back, baring his neck to both of them. "Do it again," he orders. 

Their simultaneous groans make him feel weak and powerful all at once. And then they move in perfect sync again, each taking one of his arms and walking him backward until his back hits the stable wall. Athos goes completely limp, their bodies heavy against him the only thing holding him up, and then Aramis is kissing a new mark where his shoulder meets his neck. Porthos instead fastens his mouth over the mark Aramis left the night before, and Athos barely manages to choke down the cry he wants to make.

"Athos, you _beauty,"_ Porthos whispers, and Athos know he's shuddering and twitching all over, he can't help it. "Never would have pegged you for an exhibitionist."

"I don't want anyone else to see them," Athos manages to explain. 

Aramis moans against his neck. "Just us?"

Athos nods, gasping for breath, thrashing slightly under Porthos' attention to the already-sensitive skin. It hurts in the best way, in sharp stabs of pleasure that make everything sharp and clear, the way he normally has to get halfway through a bottle to be.

Porthos lifts his head slightly when Athos gasps, and Athos sees the concern in his eyes. "Is it too much? Should I stop?"

"Don't you dare," Athos blurts out, more panicked by that thought than by anything else. He doesn't want that bruise to ever fade, because every time he looks at it he remembers he isn't alone, and he never wants to lose that, not ever. Porthos grins and ducks his head again, and Athos sucks in a high, strained breath when the delicious pain comes back. He can feel Porthos smiling against his skin, and it makes Athos' heart thump against his ribs, to know that Porthos wants to give him this, that Porthos doesn't think he's awful or twisted to desire it.

"Beautiful," Aramis breathes, coming up to kiss him again, like he can't help it, and Athos pants into Aramis' mouth. He's been strung-out and tense all morning, and it's all coming too fast, it's too good. It's like last night--it's been so long since he did anything with his body besides abuse it. 

Aramis covers his face in kisses, murmuring all the while in a trilingual mix of heartfelt endearments (French), fervent curses (Spanish), and desperate prayers (Latin, and Athos would blush at the sacrilege if all his blood weren't in his cock). "Our Athos, brilliant, beautiful Athos," he whispers, stroking a hand along Athos' stubbled jaw, and Athos closes his eyes, trying to find some sort of tether to keep himself on the ground. 

But then Aramis cuts every possible tether when he whispers, "We've been waiting for you for so long." 

Athos cries out, Aramis' words and Porthos' ministrations winding him tight enough to snap. He winds one hand through Porthos' tight curls, the other to Aramis' disheveled mop, and _begs,_ words spilling from him that he'd never thought he'd hear himself say. "Please, please, I need-- _please--"_

"We know," Aramis soothes him, and his hand slides down Athos' chest, stopping briefly over his heart before moving down further. "Let us." Athos stifles another cry when Aramis unlaces his trousers, shaking and desperate already, and Aramis presses his forehead to Athos'. "What do you want, Athos?"

His body answers before his brain catches up and tells it not to. "Your mouth," he breathes, and Aramis smiles against his lips.

"Porthos, take over up here," Aramis says, then drops smoothly to the ground at Athos' feet. Athos' head falls back until it thumps against the boards of the stable wall, because that sight is nearly enough to make him spend, then and there.

"He's good at that, too," Porthos laughs, moving up to take Athos' lips again, and his mouth is hot from where he'd been kissing the mark another layer deep into Athos' skin. His fingers move up to rub at it, keeping the pressure and little flickers of pain constant, and Athos clutches at Porthos' jacket with both hands again. It's the only way he'll stay upright.

Aramis unlaces his trousers with no ceremony, and Athos barely has time to gasp before Aramis takes him into his mouth with barely a word of warning. Aramis' mouth is obscene, hot and wet, his tongue moving in steady strokes against the underside of Athos' cock, and it's not even a full minute before Athos is holding onto Porthos for dear life, his eyes screwed up and his mouth open as he tries to hold onto a shred of his control.

Porthos kisses his jaw, then his cheek, then the still-raw place where the gun had just barely missed him the day before. _You seem to be fixating,_ Athos would say, if he could still form sentences. In the moment, Porthos kissing the place where Athos' life had nearly spilled from him, a life that Athos values little on his own, but more now that it seems to matter to them, is enough to make his breath seize in his chest and his hands tighten in Porthos' jacket.

His chin falls against his chest as he pants, and he sees Aramis as his gaze drops to the floor. Aramis is looking up through his eyelashes, watching, lips stretched and red around Athos' cock. 

Aramis winks. Porthos presses his thumb into their mark on his shoulder.

Athos comes harder than he ever has in his life.

He thinks he blacks out, because the next thing he knows Aramis is on his feet again, nuzzling at Porthos' neck even as the two of them run their hands over Athos' body, soothing him, grounding him. Athos looks up, trying to catch his breath, and meets each of their eyes in turn. 

Aramis is resting his chin on Porthos' shoulder, licking his shiny red lips and looking utterly debauched. Porthos looks much the same, his eyes dark and his breath coming ragged between his teeth. They both look a little strained, though, and Athos can feel Porthos hard and hot against his hip.

Athos leans back against the wall, some semblance of his usual control returning to him as the flood of desire ebbs. "Show me what you two do together," he says, reaching out to trace his finger down Aramis' cheek. 

Aramis turns into the touch, brushing a light kiss over Athos' fingers. "This was about you," he says, his voice rough from his attentions to Athos. It sends a delicious shiver down Athos' spine, but he won't be distracted. He wants to see them both find their pleasure--he can't have this just be about him, he needs it to be for all of them.

Athos shakes his head. "You didn't stay to let me see last night. I want to."

Porthos gives a little groan at that and half-turns so Aramis can come closer, one side pressing against Porthos and the other against Athos. They kiss, then, Porthos and Aramis, and it's like a battle, one pushing forward and the other giving ground, then turning the tables. It's clear they've done this before, each motion so easy with long practice. Athos is transfixed.

"Did you know, or did you guess, then," Aramis says, resting his forehead against Porthos' brow, "what we did after we left you last night?" He reaches out and hooks one arm around Athos, keeping him as close as Porthos is.

"Neither," Athos says, tracing their faces with his eyes. He wants to remember the way they look, dazed and wanting, as much as he wants their mark to live on his skin forever. "I meant I was sure something more would have happened, if you both had stayed and wanted me as you had today." He swallows. "Why, what did you do?"

Aramis lets out a breathy laugh, one that chokes off into a moan as Porthos unlaces his trousers. "We went back to my rooms--"

"And I fucked him into the bed," Porthos says matter-of-factly. He's unlaced his own trousers already, and he hauls Aramis closer with an arm around his waist. Porthos takes them both in hand, and Athos groans at the sight of them both hard and flushed, their cocks pressed together in Porthos' strong, callused hand.

"You did?" he asks, his voice nowhere near calm and collected. His mind is full of Aramis shuddering and pliant, and Porthos taking him hard and fast--and maybe some day he'll get to see that, maybe (his throat clamps down on a moan) maybe he'll get to _feel_ that. He's more aroused than he thought he could be, so soon after coming, and when Aramis tips his head back, moaning, Athos can't just watch anymore.

His hand joins Porthos' on their cocks, and both of them catch their breaths at that. Porthos swears, his eyes closing and his face going sharp and intense, and Aramis falls against the two of them, his mouth falling open, slack with ecstasy.

Porthos drags Aramis into a kiss, sucking at his lips and tongue, and Aramis moans, his cock twitching in Athos and Porthos' hands. It takes Athos a moment, and then he realizes Porthos is licking Athos' own come from Aramis' mouth.

He tightens his hand, lightheaded with want, and Porthos muffles a low cry against Aramis' lips. He comes a half-second later, spilling wet and hot over their hands, and Aramis curses under his breath, his hips snapping up once, twice, before he comes, too.

They stay that way, close against each other and letting their breath even out, for a long time. Too long, Athos knows; they risk detection every second they stay like this, wrapped in each other's arms and letting come dry on their skin. He's still reluctant to be the first one to move. 

But finally, he does, pragmatism coming back as slowly as his self-control had, and he presses a kiss to both of their temples before drawing back slightly. "We should collect ourselves."

"Right," Porthos rumbles. He kisses Aramis again before gently beginning to tuck them both into their trousers. Aramis makes a soft noise of regret, but doesn't protest any further. He still has an arm around Athos, holding him close.

"I suppose I should go unbar the door," Aramis says, sounding as though there is nothing in world he would rather do less. "And then we should go about our mission."

"Which is riding to where, exactly?" Porthos asks, crossing the floor and bending down to pick up something.

"Far enough away that I'm not going to like it," Aramis mutters, and Athos remembers what Porthos said they did last night. He laughs, he can't help it, and Aramis gives him a look that is both tender and annoyed. "It's all your fault," he says, and leans in to kiss Athos again.

Porthos returns, then, holding up something for Athos. He frowns at it, then realizes it's the scarf he was wearing. Just the sight of it brings back the memory, the sensation of everyone's eyes on him, the hot, prickling feeling sliding down his spine, and he swallows.

He lifts his chin slightly, baring his neck again, and Porthos steps in close. He wraps the scarf around Athos' neck, once over and then again, tying it carefully so that none of the bite marks or stubble burn they've left on his collarbones and neck will show. 

For some reason, the simple act of _dressing_ him makes Athos more weak at the knees than anything else they've done. Porthos does it with such care, such intensity in his eyes and such attention to detail, that by the time he's done, Athos wants nothing more than to fall into him again.

Porthos smiles hotly, his fingers tracing the lines of Athos' jaw when he's finished. "If I thought keeping my hands off of just Aramis was hard, I can't imagine how it's gonna be with both of you."

"He is deliciously responsive, isn't he?" Aramis says, smiling at Athos. "Our poor, touch-starved Athos. We have so much to teach you."

"I look forward to it," he says, and startles himself when he means it.

He's rewarded by a quirk of Porthos' lips and a warm look from Aramis, and he feels his cheeks flush before he can manage to return their smiles.

Aramis laughs aloud, tightening the arm around Athos' shoulder and drawing him away from the wall. "How you blush at _that_ and not everything else we did, I can't know."

Athos relaxes into Aramis' usual fond teasing, and everything feels the same, if a little warmer and closer. Porthos and Aramis are unchanged, if a little less guarded (one less thing they have to hide, now), and Athos hopes he seems the same to them. He feels like they've stripped him down, for all that they were helping him back into his clothes a moment ago. He wouldn't think he'd ever have enjoyed being laid bare, ever again, but it isn't so bad as he'd thought. Maybe it's just because it's them.

Porthos unbars the door of the stables, and they get their horses saddled with their usual banter and speculation about their mission flowing freely back and forth. Nothing's different, and it might as well have not happened, except Porthos and Aramis are both reaching out to touch him more than they usually do, their eyes warm and their hands gentle, and Athos is feeling so light he could float.

"All set?" Aramis asks at last, as they lead their horses out into the courtyard.

Athos looks between Aramis and Porthos, both smiling at him in the morning sunlight, in their blue and silver uniforms, and he nods. Yes. He has everything he needs, right here.

Athos swings himself up into his saddle. "After you, gentlemen."


End file.
